Jessica E. Wragg

Tag: grapefruit

Open call for London-based women.

I’m looking for London based women to take part in an art project I’m working on.

Entitled ‘Any Place’, the work will be exhibited on my website first and foremost, and will feature portraits of 50 women along with the most ordinary or unnerving place they have been sexually harassed or assaulted.

The idea behind the project is that to viewers, it will look as though the women have been asked a far more mundane question – perhaps ‘what’s the strangest place you’ve kissed someone?’ or ‘name a place that holds some significance for you’. In actual fact, the answers across the board will prove a far more sinister point – that sexual harassment can happen anywhere, to anyone, at any time.

As an example, my portrait would have ‘In the cold room of a butchery’ below it.

I’m looking for 50 women or all ages and backgrounds to take part. You must be somewhat London based, and be happy for me to meet you and take a head and shoulders picture. It goes without saying that you must also be happy to speak about the harassment you’ve endured.

This is a hugely exciting project for me which, if well received, will hopefully go on to become something bigger. If you’d like to get involved, please contact me via my ‘Find me‘ page, or email me on jessica.e.wragg AT gmail.com

I’m really looking forward to hearing from you.

Jessica

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Grapefruit.

I am lying on your table; all chrome, steel, polished metal. My back is cold, slipping downstairs in my hospital gown of turquoise polyester; like a child in their mother’s clothing. Your eyes are cased behind thick lenses, magnified, large and questioning. Thick rimmed glasses. All the while I am watching your hands.

They are soft and ageing badly, tanned on the back and pale palms with yellow cuticles. You’re patting my forehead beneath the hair that I did not push away.

It is a strong blade, a sharp one. Cutting slowly you slice me in two, straight down the middle, and open me up like a grapefruit. I am glistening; my pink, red, purple innards looking upwards towards the ceiling of styrofoam squares and oddly placed light bulbs. I blink madly in the false light.

My middle is off-centre, my legs splayed outwards like the thrown down toys of a child, my stomach is a round thing. Peel back my skin – the shrill sound of cutting echoing back and forth against the plexiglass. I watch, you reach inside. Past the wet warmth of my liver and stomach, which spit like a spoon bursting the sweet flesh of an orange; bitter rind and sweet insides. You are smiling behind the cotton face mask, I am waiting for you to lick the juice from your chin.